


get busy living or get busy dying

by scribblscrabbl



Category: Mission: Impossible - Ghost Protocol (2011)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-04
Updated: 2012-03-04
Packaged: 2017-11-01 02:18:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/350872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scribblscrabbl/pseuds/scribblscrabbl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brandt's really an analyst. Ethan teaches him how to shoot a gun.</p>
            </blockquote>





	get busy living or get busy dying

**Author's Note:**

> Originally a fill for ghotocol-kink.

The morning after he sees Julia on the pier, he’s burying 9 mms in the chest of a civilian target and synchronizing his breaths to the recoil of his Glock. That he seeks out comfort in a firing range might say something about his character, his mental condition, and his relationships, but he doesn’t waste his time dwelling on the implications. After 20 years in the field, he understands a thing or two about self-preservation. They all do. Jane practices yoga, Benji fiddles with his gadgets, and Ethan picks up a gun. (It’s the heft and the fit of it in his hands, its response to his touch, the compact aggression. All he has to do is load and unload, submit to the rhythm.)

A hard tap on his shoulder makes him pull his finger off the trigger. He turns his head, arms still raised, and sees Brandt, decked out in a headset, safety glasses, and a three-piece suit. He lowers his gun and pulls off his gear. Brandt’s clutching a folder, a case file by the looks of it.

“You missed your debriefing this morning, Agent Hunt.” Brandt’s stance is a little defensive, as if he’s fully prepared for the possibility of a gun to his head. 

“Ethan.” The formality irks him. He wonders if it’s habit or if it’s him, something about him that Brandt’s already classified as a danger. “I figured saving the world from nuclear catastrophe gave me the excuse I needed to take a day off.”

It sounds a little cocky but Brandt’s mouth twitches. Ethan studies Brandt’s impeccable seams and creases and feels an itch down his spine. 

“They’ve rescheduled you to 2 pm.” 

“IMF sent its Chief Analyst all the way down here to tell me that?”

Brandt’s eyes flit to his gun and then back to his face, looking uncertain, caught.

“They also want you to teach me how to shoot.”

Ethan blinks and absorbs the implication. 

“You’ve never fired a gun before?” Admittedly he’s been too busy staving off nuclear catastrophe to pick up on that. “IMF doesn’t train analysts?”

“Only on how to withstand torture.” Brandt’s tone tells him it’s a joke and his eyes tell him something else entirely. Twenty years in this business and Ethan never knew, although he can’t say he’s surprised. Whether they’re trained to fight or trained to think, in the end they’re all set on the same collision course.

“Well, for starters, you’ll probably feel more comfortable out of that jacket.”

Brandt pauses before moving to slide out of it like it’s a layer of armor he’s resigned to shed and that Ethan better not get him killed for it, even though he’s as safe as he’ll ever be in Ethan’s hands. Then he rolls up his cuffs, needlessly, but Ethan doesn’t tell him that because he looks more at ease now, instantly more familiar. (He’s reminded of Dubai after the sandstorm, the haggard state of Brandt’s clothes, the bruises under his eyes, and the whiskey on his lips.)

Before Ethan says anything more, Brandt picks up the Glock and ends up pointing it right between Ethan’s eyes.

“Whoa, whoa!” He whips his head back and lays a hand against Brandt’s. “First lesson, don’t point the gun at anything you don’t want to shoot. Me, for example.”

“Shit, sorry.” Brandt winces and takes a breath. “I’ve held a gun before. When I was a lot younger.”

He stares at it like it’s a cover he’s accidentally blown. Ethan curls his hand around Brandt’s more firmly and guides his shoulder with the other to turn him downrange.

“No harm done.” He moves closer, until they’re swapping body heat and he feels Brandt taking slow controlled breaths against him. “Let’s just practice the grip and stance, all right? No shooting at anything yet.”

Brandt’s silent, spine rigid, shoulders tense, and still he’s driving Ethan a little crazy with his proximity, with the smell Ethan caught when they shook hands in the Secretary’s car, the smell that didn’t go away after they escaped from the canal soaked in its filthy water. He inhales and it fills his lungs, slow and easy.

“Always keep your finger outside the trigger guard until you decide to shoot. Move your hand up high against the back strap. Good. Then wrap your other hand around the part that’s still exposed.” 

He cradles Brandt’s grip in his hand, making sure it’s a comfortable fit before skimming his fingers along Brandt’s wrists and guiding his arms up towards the target. 

“Bend your knees a little, you’ll feel steadier.” He shifts his thighs, nudging against Brandt’s until they yield, and then drops his mouth closer to Brandt’s ear. “Relax, you’re a natural.” 

He feels Brandt stiffen and then concede, muscles loosening until he’s almost pliant and Ethan has to swallow a groan. (He imagines that William Brandt could be his swift untimely end, with or without a gun, and not even know it.)

He studies the curve of Brandt’s neck and weighs the consequences of closing the distance, dragging his lips over the expanse of skin still dark with the heat of Dubai, the taste enough to make his toes curl.

“Ethan.” Brandt’s voice is quiet, rough, like maybe they’re walking the same line towards a mutual disaster.

Ethan moves his hand back to the gun and locks Brandt’s fingers in place. (He thinks about what those hands could do to him, break him down and make him beg, extract the secrets he’s made a living off keeping.)

“Don’t pull the trigger, squeeze. Always make your first shot count.”

It’s the kind of advice to prolong survival, not to guarantee it, and he caves a little under the certainty that it’s the best he’s got.

“I trust you.” Brandt doesn’t move a muscle, just keeps his eyes trained on the target and his breathing steady. It sounds like a certainty bent on replacing all others, on convincing Ethan that he doesn’t expect much, only that they’ll be standing next to each other when the world ends.


End file.
